


After Sherrinford Fall

by dragonwriter24cmf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mycroft Feels, POV Alternating, Protective Siblings, References to Depression, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21889153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonwriter24cmf/pseuds/dragonwriter24cmf
Summary: Sherlock knows what it's like to be backed into a corner by an evil genius. He knows what it's like to go through the aftermath. When he realizes that Eurus intended Mycroft's destruction all along, can he save his brother? And if he's going to succeed, what will it take, to save the Ice Man from the consequences of their confrontation?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 71





	After Sherrinford Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters belong to BBC's Sherlock.

**After Sherrinford Fall**

Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, cursed soundly in his head as he rushed towards his brother’s home. He really could be such an idiot sometimes.

In his defense, this was more a sentiment thing. More John’s thing. And none of them had been thinking clearly in the aftermath of the events at Sherrinford. Nearly dying multiple times, not to mention the mental and emotional trials Eurus had put them through...well, it had clouded all their thought processes somewhat.

He’d spent a few days while Baker street was being repaired, reordering his newly recovered memories and the memories of the events at Sherrinford, as well as devising a plan of action. He knew, logically, that he couldn’t bring Eurus home, not the way he wanted to, but he could make an effort to stay connected to her. Keep her on the ground, so to speak.

Thinking of that, however, had led to making other connections. And brought his attention to  a connection he’d missed. And thereafter neglected.  He could pass it off as a reaction to the trauma of regaining childhood memories. An unfortunate side effect of regaining his sister and almost losing John. A consequence of the trials that had unsettled him. Even, an oversight in the chaos of repairing Baker Street and tending to other matters.

It still didn’t excuse his oversight, the way he’d missed the situation of vital importance right in front of him.

He knew. Knew Moriarty. Understood Eurus, to a degree.  How their minds worked, the dance of connection and pain they engaged in. And he knew.

Illogical, for Eurus to have sought help from only one brother, even if he was her favorite. Even if Mycroft had proven difficult to reach. Illogical, for her to have confined her reactions and observations to only one person, whether she was lashing out or crying.

In light of that, many oddities in her behavior made sense. So many.

Th cab pulled up to the drive of the sprawling two story Victorian house that Mycroft lived in. There were lights on, so his brother was still awake. Not surprising. Mycroft’s hours were as irregular as his own, and likely recent events had made his insomnia worse. God only knew, Sherlock and John had their own share of nightmares, and nights sitting up with cups of tea because they couldn’t sleep.

He walked up the drive, knowing the guards (Mycroft had hired them after his little stunt) would recognize him and give him passage. Of course, they also informed his brother that he was there, so it was no surprise that Mycroft met him at the door.

Mycroft’s smile was tight and cold, obviously fake, and did nothing to hide the shadows in his eyes. Still, he sighed and gestured Sherlock inside. He guided Sherlock into a parlor, pouring himself a drink ( _ not his first _ ) before speaking. “Well, this is unexpected.”

“Yes well, somewhat spur of the moment, really.” Sherlock’s eyes were flicking over his brother’s frame, taking in details, making deductions, planning his moves.

“I see. And to what do I owe the...pleasure, I suppose?” Mycroft sipped at his drink, one eyebrow raised.

_ Dark circles. Hasn’t been sleeping well. Suit near immaculate, but not flawless. Could be a stressful day at work, but creases are sharper, suggesting less attention to detail. Hair slightly disordered, skin showing a hint of oiliness...not keeping up with his full routine. Going through the motions. Everything correct enough to avoid comment, but no personal consideration.  _ _ Drinking, at least one glass a night. Loss of weight, not yet noticeable, but there. Conclusion: Under constant stress. Has been neglecting himself, so stress is internal, rather than external. Likely cause: The incidents at Sherrinford, possibly including those immediately before and after our visit.  _

_Stiffness of posture hints at discomfort. Wariness. His guard is up, and unconventional methods will be needed to get past it._

Mycroft was still staring at him, glass and eyebrow raised, as he came out of his deductive mode. “Well?”

“Yes, well...I was reviewing recent events, sorting them in my Mind Palace, you understand. I happened upon some...incongruous observations, and a deductive conclusion I wished to establish the validity of. A question I needed to answer, which can only be answered definitively in your presence.”

“Indeed. In that case...” Mycroft set his drink down before turning to face him. “I suppose I’m gratified to be of assistance.” He spread his hands in a theatrical gesture. “Ask away.”

He’d been waiting for that gesture. He had back-up plans in place, of course, but he was hoping to trigger Mycroft’s flair for drama. Or any opening he could use, really.

Sherlock darted forward, counting on Mycroft’s surprise freezing him for the critical seconds. His fingers tangled in the unbuttoned collar of his brother’s linen shirt ( _ linen, not silk, consciously or unconsciously avoiding any indulgence or comfort _ )  and, with a rough yank, he  tore the two sides of the garment apart. The force of the motion sent buttons everywhere. 

He’d expected Mycroft to strike at him in anger. Or twist backward in embarrassment, tugging the garment back into place. He was stepping back and letting go before his hands had finished the motion, eyes flicking over his brother’s newly bared torso even as he put space between them.

Mycroft did neither. Instead, he merely smiled, dropping his hands to his sides. The smile was a cold, ugly thing, twisted. Shame, rage, humiliation...all of it danced in his brother’s blue-gray eyes. The smile was a bitter thing, a dark mockery of even his usual taunting smirks. Sherlock’s gut twisted.

Worse than he thought.

“Hmm...I suppose, having the upper hand, you would have the urge to continue...embarrassing me.” Embarrassing was the word Mycroft used, but it was clear something colder was his first choice.

_ Shaming. Humiliating.  _

Mycroft continued. “I do hope you won’t feel compelled to destroy my trousers as well. Much more complicated to mend, or to purchase, and I’m rather fond of this pair.”

“No.” Sherlock cut his elder brother off. “No. I...I...well I...I suppose I could have chosen another course of action. But this was the quickest method for determining what I needed to know. However….” He dug into the deep inner pocket of his coat. “I did take the liberty of procuring and bringing this.” He drew out a crisp, freshly folded new shirt, precisely tailored to Mycroft’s measurements, give or take half an inch at the waist.

“ Ah. Considerate of you to replace what you’ve damaged.” Mycroft took the shirt, shrugging out of his ruined one. “I don’t suppose you’d care to explain why you felt the need to destroy part of my wardrobe?”

“I told you. I needed a question answered.” Now that he’d gotten started, it was oddly difficult to continue.

_ No bruises or wounds to arms or torso. Movement suggests stiffness in lower extremities, but not injuries. _

“And I suppose asking was out of the question?” Mycroft’s tone was biting as he tugged the new garment into place and did up the buttons.

“I could not trust you to be honest with me.” The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he winced. John would have elbowed him for that particular blunt delivery.

“Ah. Of course.” Mycroft’s tone was as cold as his code-name.

He was going to lose him. The realization was enough to prompt the words he was struggling to form. “My judgment on your trustworthiness has nothing to do with recent events, or your reticence regarding Eurus and Redbeard. I...there are things, things that no one in our family, or particular circle of associates, would admit to without being forced, and in this case I needed to know, to verify the truth.”

“And what truth might that be?”

“I needed to know whether Eurus tortured you physically as well as psychologically.”

Well, that was the first part. Why it was so blasted hard to say…

“Really Sherlock. I thought being dissected was your lot in our little family adventure. And I should think I would know, if I had been...tortured, as you say.”

“True. But you did know.” Now that the process had been started, getting on was easier, his brain speeding along the connections he had made. “ Probably as soon as you realized the truth of John and I’s little prank, as soon as you found out that she’d escaped and contacted us. But if not then, if you didn’t realize the web into which we were all drawn at that point, then you certainly did when she started the first challenge after we were captured.”

He followed Mycroft to the chairs near the fireplace and dropped into one, then drew his elbows in, bringing his hands up together in front of his face. “I was reviewing and storing the incidents at Sherrinford in my Mind Palace, and I realized. Too many inconsistencies. Too many variables. And above all, the stated plan and it’s execution was too simple for Eurus’s stated goals. Obviously there was subtext, an underwritten intention. She and Moriarty planned the whole thing together. Of course neither of them would be so simplistic. So I reviewed it again.”

“The first task. Shoot the governor. But why, why him? He was under her thumb. She was hardly his prisoner any longer. Could have been revenge. But even with that...the stated goal was to observe MY reactions, my connections, my processes. Why then force you or John to do the killing? Why place me into the role of the observer?”

“Conclusion: She did want to observe me, but there was also someone else of interest to her. Not the governor, he was expendable, a pawn to be sacrificed. So it follows...you or John?”

“John she has no interest in. Maybe his morals, but in the end, he is a rather simple human being. Ordinary. Besides, the goal was to connect with people like her. John, for all his good points, is not. So then, by process of elimination, her interest, primary or secondary, was you. But what could she want from you? A test? She’s had plenty of opportunity  to observe you . No, she wanted something more specific. She wanted to observe something specific.”

“Further analysis of the test then. You or John to kill the governor. He is your associate, no matter how poorly you may have thought of him. You knew him. And then, there’s the matter of the deed itself. For John...well, he is a soldier, and a doctor. He’s killed. Shot in cold blood, in self defense, in any number of cases. He doesn’t like it, but he can do it. Well, apparently he has trouble shooting innocents, but not the point. Because...you.”

“You...you were never intended to have a way out. No matter who died or who was saved. Shoot the governor, and you violate your own strict moral code, the only thing that keeps you on the side of angels. Or at least so you believe, which is rather understandable, considering. John shoots, and you have to either condemn the man to whom you have entrusted my welfare, or you must condone cold-blooded murder. We already know from the Magnussen case that you are not the sort to condone such. Not even for your own family.  Or, instead of one life, two are sacrificed. A no-win for you. You dedicate your entire life’s work to preventing unnecessary casualties in the world. The Bond Air project comes to mind, as does your reasoning regarding the little girl we thought was on an airplane. A true no-win scenario for you. No way out. No matter the outcome, the rules by which you live your life are broken. Small wonder you threw up in the corner.”

Mycroft’s face twisted. “Perhaps I’m simply not as inured to violence as you and the good doctor.”

“Untrue. Your position enables you to start and stop wars with a few words. In the past, you have had contact with squads of elite special forces, even assassins.  You faced the patience grenade in Baker Street with minimal loss of composure, and never flinched when you witnessed me being beaten in Serbia. No. This went deeper. Far more personal.”

Mycroft’s jaw clenched. “If you’re quite finished...”

“I’m not.” Sherlock overrode him. He needed to get through his thoughts, now, while Mycroft was unsettled enough to let him.

“Second task. The Garrideb case. Eurus made it plain that I would be forced to choose between you and John. But the case itself...Why that one? There are hundreds of unsolved cases every day. Could have been because of her access to the brothers, but she could come and go as she pleased, and a woman who can successfully pass herself off as a licensed psychiatrist can most certainly kidnap anyone she wishes. So...why that case?”

“The clue was the gun, in more ways than one. A buffalo gun, old-fashioned. Sniper’s shot. Not things you’d have cause to be expert in, but things John would know, as a military man and with a wide-ranging knowledge of firearms. Conclusion: She specifically set you and John against each other, and chose a case where your knowledge would naturally be inferior to his. Those things which you could deduce without effort would also be things I could discover on my own.”

“Also, why kill the two innocent brothers? Could have been vengeance, she did say that two of them worked at Sherrinford. But her stated goal was to observe how well I deduced under pressure. I chose a man to convict and deduced the guilty party correctly. Why kill the others? Answer: To prove we were powerless. To make a point about her indifference to killing. But also to make an impact. On who? All of us to some degree, but you had already proven the most vulnerable to witnessing the death of innocents, and were to some degree unbalanced by the knowledge that you might have to condemn a child to die.”

“Third test. The trial with...with Molly Hooper.” That was hard to say. He’d gone to talk to Molly, in the neutral ground of the lab. It had been hard, both of them raw from the experience of those three minutes. He’d managed to explain, told her the truth.

The truth was that it might not be romantic love, but he did love her. Enough to try and save her. They’d need time to regain their previous relationship, and it might never be the same, but they’d at least begun smoothing things over.

“That trial. Why that? Of course, it was a test of sentiment. Trial by fire. But there were several things about it. Why Molly? Why that particular sentiment? Why that test at all?”

“It was, of course, a test of my reaction to an emotional situation. That much was obvious. But you...you didn’t encourage me to leave it. You made none of your usual remarks. And something occurred to me. Several things, actually.”

“One: Molly Hooper was the only one besides yourself who knew I survived the Fall. The only one who knew the secret during the two years I was believed to be dead. A confidant, if you will, even if the two of you never spoke of it. She was also the one person who was there for me. The one who counted the most. Who else could effect you?”

“Two: You always say caring is not an advantage. That sentiment is the grit in the lens. But in that particular test, even if there was no real danger, the only way to ensure Molly’s survival, an innocent’s survival, was sentiment. The ability to care. And we both know that, regardless of her words, Eurus was quite capable of rigging Molly’s house. If nothing else, she could have set a second patience grenade to be delivered if the conditions were not met.”

“She forced you to take back your words, by forcing a situation in which sentiment was the only means of saving a life, preventing needless death. And something else.”

Sherlock breathed deep, staring into his brother’s eyes, glacial in their fury. “I have always considered you somewhat hypocritical. You say caring is not an advantage, and yet, at every turn, you insist on caring for me. Being there for me. Reminding me that you are concerned about my welfare.”

“The situation with Molly Hooper. Eurus, even John could see what it did to me. Emotional manipulation and torture. Unless your constant  claims of brotherly concern and care were entirely false, making the world’s worst liar out of you, then watching me be tortured...it must have affected you as well. Two for the price of one.”

He didn’t give Mycroft a chance to respond to that. He didn’t need to. He had seen his brother’s face in the reflections of the screens as he and Molly talked. He had heard the softly uttered ‘No...’ from Mycroft’s lips. The truth had been in his silence, waiting patiently at the door while he destroyed a coffin and breathed through the pain, curled up on the floor.

“Final test. My choice. Shoot one and choose the other. You thought I would choose John. That I was prepared to choose John. Your plan was too smoothly executed. You must have been waiting to implement it from Eurus’s first hint that I would choose. Goad me into shooting you by insulting John and my own mental capacity. If that failed, joke to try and exasperate me. If that failed, take the blame for our situation, in an attempt to alleviate any guilt I might feel. Cast it in the light of an execution, for a fatal mistake.”

Sherlock met his brother’s eyes, fighting to keep his voice steady. “You assumed that I would shoot you.”

Mycroft’s wintry smirk reappeared. “Yes, well, we have had a somewhat acrimonious relationship. I rather supposed you’d be eager to get rid of ‘big brother’ looking over your shoulder. And you didn’t seem to hesitate.”

“Untrue. If I hadn’t hesitated, you would be dead.” He swallowed hard. “I find it...irritating, that everyone with the exception of John, would assume that I would choose you as my target.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t point the gun at Dr. Watson.”

“No. But it wasn’t...I had just spent minutes listening to a frightened child, alone on a plane, trying to plan whether I could save her, or how best to ease her death. It reminded me, rather forcefully, that John is the single father of a little girl, a child whose welfare I have been entrusted with. To orphan her leaving her with only an inconstant, frequently absent alcoholic as her only surviving relative…I swore I would be there for John and his family. I failed Mary. I could not fail Rosamund, or John, for that matter.”

“Ah. Well, in that case….I suppose I am to applaud your priorities, and pretend your choice had nothing to do with the fact that you frequently address me to your associates as your archenemy.”

He hadn’t called his brother that in a long time, but of course his brother would remember.

How to address the topic? More difficult, how was he to deal with what had just been revealed as a long settled wound to his brother’s psyche?

Direct appeals would not work.

Roundabout it was then.

The words escaped without conscious thought, and he let them, trusting his subconscious to give him what he needed, particularly with one of the few men who required no censorship of him. Mycroft, even more than John, was used to the way his mind worked.

“Moriarty taught me something. In our game, in that last confrontation on the rooftop. I think about it, at times, when my mind chooses to wander. Friends...friends are opposites. Human examples of the scientific principle that opposites attract. They possess value in that they often possess characteristics which we ourselves do not. John’s emotion. Molly Hooper’s compassion. Lestrade’s...well, whatever it is, it is important enough that I keep him around. Mrs. Hudson’s worldliness, such as it is. Enemies…enemies, however...”

“Enemies are mirrors. Shadows. Things we might have been or could become. Moriarty and I. Brilliant, talented. Bored with the everyday workings of the world. Seeking stimulation through whatever means necessary. Willing to go to extreme lengths. Willing to burn. James Moriarty could have been myself, in other circumstances. For example, had I had different parents. Had Eurus not affected my life. Or...had I not had a rather overbearing and extremely responsible elder sibling.”

“James Moriarty was my mirror. Before I encountered him, I thought you were. After I realized, I wondered...but I know now.”

He met his brother’s eyes. “Magnussen. You declared him under your protection. You said to go against him would be to go against you. He was your mirror. The information gatherer, the influencer of nations, the shadowed power behind the throne. If you were less responsible, less moral, you would be him. His shadow, even after his death, is what you fear the breaking of your moral code would lead you to.”

There was confirmation deep in Mycroft’s eyes, even as his mouth curled in a cold sneer. “Interesting speculation, brother mine. But I wonder if there is a point to all this philosophy. If not, I do have more important considerations.”

“Point. Moriarty is my mirror. He is always there, in the deepest recesses of my psyche. When I was shot, nearly killed, I retreated to the heart of my Mind Palace. He was there. When I nearly overdosed on the plane, he was there. In my core, I am exactly like him. His is the face of my innermost demons, the things I try to separate myself from. But what truly separates me from Moriarty is not the innermost resources of my mind, or my psyche. It is what surrounds that place.”

“I saw it all, when I was shot, when I was dying. All of them.”

At any other time, he would never have spoken of these things. Never. But Mycroft needed to know. It was the only way to get past his brother’s walls, by bringing down his own.

And Mycroft was listening, eyes wide, visibly surprised by what Sherlock was revealing. Which was only reasonable, since Sherlock had resisted telling him anything remotely personal for years.

“The people in my Mind Palace. Molly Hooper, who helped me survive. Lestrade, who frequently provides clues, and impetus. Anderson, whom I despise but he does have his uses. John, of course. The voice of proper behavior. The voice of the ‘real world’, so to speak. More accurately, the voice of the common man. All of these voices are important. But there is one...one person, one voice. The first I approach, the first and last voice I hear. The most relevant person in my mind.”

“Ah. And dare I ask who occupies such a singular position?”

“I should think it obvious.”

“Do enlighten me.”

“The person I have known the longest, who has had the greatest impact on my life.” Sherlock paused. Waited.

Mycroft opened his mouth, his eyes shining with sarcasm and hurt and sharpness. Sherlock moved then, lunging forward.

Mycroft went rigid, no doubt expecting another attack. That gave him the second he needed. Before Mycroft could properly react, he was angled over his brother’s chair, arms wrapped around his brother’s chest ( _damn Mycroft for being squished back into his chair, but at least he had skinny enough arms and the chair was yielding enough to get his hands latched into the back of Mycroft’s shirt_ ) his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder so he could murmur into his brother’s ear.

“My brother. My overbearing, responsible, positively stuffy brother, who insists on being there, even when he is not physically present. The oldest and most persistent voice, the one I listen to first and last, is you. And that...that is half the reason I could not shoot.”

“And the other half?” Mycroft’s voice was soft, and he sounded breathless, stunned.

“The same reason you tried to save me from Magnusson.” A breath, a moment, and he could feel Mycroft’s heart beating against his arm. He could feel the warmth of Mycroft’s body heat through the shirt, far warmer than a so-called Iceman should be.

“Your loss would break my heart.”

Mycroft flinched in his arms. He was tempted to let go. But he had held John through the mourning of his wife. He had held Molly through some tears as well. He had endured hugs from his parents, and even relaxed into hugs from Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. He could do this.

Besides, he couldn't shake the feeling that if he let go he might lose his brother. For good

*****ASF*****

Mycroft Holmes sat frozen in his chair, his mind stuttering as he tried to process the last few minutes.

He had known Sherlock would come to him. He hadn’t been certain what form that confrontation would take, but he had known it would come.

He’d expected questions and demands regarding Eurus. Accusations.

He’d been mortified when Sherlock had torn his shirt apart. While he had accepted the possibility that Sherlock might be out for further blood, angry over the things he had concealed in their impromptu Baker Street consultation, he really hadn’t expected physical violence and outright humiliation. He hadn’t told the truth about Redbeard, or all the details about what Eurus had done, and he’d expected some form of attack on that front, verbally and perhaps psychologically.

Then Sherlock had replaced his shirt, and actually offered an apology, of sorts. Even more surprising, he’d had a reason for his actions, one that was not based on anger but rather concern. He could hear the truth in his brother’s voice, see it in his facial expressions. And, as much as it galled him to admit, Sherlock was right. He wouldn’t have admitted the truth, if Eurus had subjected him to physical torture.

Much like the way he hadn’t told Sherlock about his state of mind while locked in Eurus’s old cell. Or the fact that she’d threatened to have him given to the cannibals if he didn’t sit quietly, and he’d almost tried to make a break for it anyway.

Not that she would have physically tortured him. That wasn’t the sort of game she played with her siblings. Other people took the brunt of the physical damage in her games, not them.

And then Sherlock’s comment about what Eurus had done to him. Psychological torture.

It was true, he had been...unsettled. Disturbed. But to label it torture...he’d tried to brush it off, and then Sherlock began talking, listing his observations and conclusions in the rushed, haphazard tone they always used when playing deductions, and denial was no longer possible.

Sherlock was her favorite. Her focus was always Sherlock. He wanted to argue that, but his brother’s points hit home entirely too often.

The situation with the governor had been hell for him. Absolute agony. True, he had spent several minutes ripping the man a new one, but being asked to murder him...watching Dr. Watson prepare to execute him...and finally the suicide, followed by his wife’s murder...He hadn’t been involuntarily sick at the sight of blood since he was a teenager. Not even, as his brother pointed out, when he’d watched Sherlock being tortured in Serbia.

He hadn’t even been able to watch. He’d seen people die before, prepared to send Sherlock on that deadly mission, and he’d been unable to watch, standing in that cell.

And then the Garrideb case. Sherlock was right again. Modern weapons he could identify, he often handled government contracts, but something like an antique buffalo gun? And then the cold-blooded execution of the two innocent brothers. It hadn’t escaped his knowledge that he might have to condemn a little girl to die in a plane, if nothing could be done.

And then the trial with Molly Hooper. Sherlock was right, they had been confidants of a sort during his two year disappearance. He had known that Sherlock had enlisted her help for the whole charade, and that his brother cared deeply for the girl. He had watched over her, when Sherlock was out of the country. From afar, of course. They’d only met once or twice, really, and very briefly.

Listening to his brother during that three minute phone call...he hadn’t heard Sherlock sound so strung out since Mary Watson had died. The tension generated by their suspense, racing the clock, was nothing compared to what he’d felt listening to his brother.

Heaven help him, he’d almost preferred the drug filled mania Sherlock had descended into after Mary Watson’s death. That, at least, he knew how to deal with. What signs to watch for, what precautions to take. When to step in and when to step back. He’d known what was going on and, while it was highly unpleasant, it was at least familiar.

He had no idea what to do with a brother suffering a crisis of emotion. In the end, he had retreated, a silent shadow offering support by his lack of condemnation. He’d kept quiet when Sherlock smashed the coffin, and let Dr. Watson, who was far more used to dealing with such things, help his brother. It was all he could do.

All he could do. Practically useless. And that was when he’d made up his mind that when Eurus forced the choice she’d hinted at, the choice of which one to keep, he’d nudge Sherlock in the direction of choosing to kill him. It was fortunate that he’d made that decision, given that said choice had been Sherlock’s next test.

It had hurt a bit, when Sherlock had deduced what he was doing and then still pointed the gun at him. That feeling, however, had been nothing compared to what he’d felt when Sherlock had turned the gun on himself. He’d thought his heart would stop, his mind had frozen. Sherlock at gunpoint, by his own hand or someone else’s, had been one of his nightmares even before Mary Watson had shot him. Never mind after.

All that had been difficult enough. Being locked in Eurus’s cell for hours, with nothing to do but rerun the scenarios in his mind and contemplate her next moves had been...unpleasant. He could honestly say that he had never been more pleased to see a normal person than he had when DI Lestrade had arrived and released him.

Lestrade, who had come by later to tell him that Eurus was once more in custody, that John and Sherlock were safe, though John had almost gotten drowned. Lestrade, who had revealed to him that the girl in the plane was a construct, Eurus’s version of a Mind Palace scenario according Sherlock. A scenario which had trapped her until Sherlock had solved the riddle of her ritual song.

Lestrade had also informed him that it had been Sherlock who requested someone check up on him. He still remembered the DI’s words.

_‘I think he’s a bit worried about you. Of course, being that you’re his brother and all...’ Lestrade had smiled. ‘You should be proud of him. I know I am. Sherlock Holmes is a great man. Better than that...he’s finally become a good one.’ A pause, and a softer remark. ‘And so are you, Mycroft Holmes. So, if you need anything...you call me, all right? Or call that brother of yours. I don’t think he’ll begrudge you the time.’_

He hadn’t called, of course. It was not his way. And he’d not been inclined to after the scene with Mummy and Father in his office. Sherlock had tried, but there was no defense against the things they’d said, or the unfortunate truth of them. Although, saying Sherlock was the grown-up of the two, that really was a bit much.

Though, perhaps these days, it was more or less correct. Sherlock had matured. He had even found friends.

And he had come here. Which led back to the original point where Mycroft had felt his mind begin to short-circuit.

The moment when Sherlock had confessed his revelations. Enemies and mirrors, and what that meant for their fractured, tumultuous relationship. The revelation of Sherlock’s similarity to Moriarty, and his own similarity to Magnusson.

_Sherlock was correct about that. Magnusson had been his mirror, his chess partner, the black king to his white. Until Sherlock had check-mated him._

And then Sherlock’s revelation about the figures in his mind palace.

He had not expected to have so prominent a place in his brother’s mind. He had never believed that Sherlock would admit him to have any place, let alone the place of first and last importance, more relevant than even his beloved Dr. Watson.

And then this, the final revelation, and the one that had sent his thoughts screeching to a halt.

Sherlock, draped awkwardly over his chair ( _pinning one knee and one arm to the point of discomfort, and he really should tell him to move_ ), arms wrapped around him in an embrace ( _t_ _hey hadn’t hugged since Sherlock was a child, arms wrapped around his brother during the worst of the drug episodes didn’t count_ ), repeating the words he’d spoken over a year ago into his ear with perfect sincerity.

_**‘** _ _**Your loss would break my heart.’** _

How the hell was he supposed to answer that?

He was tempted to ask if his brother was high, or drugged. That question was discarded before it even fully formed. There were no indicators of that, and even if there had been, that was not the proper response. Even the Iceman knew that.

He remembered the night Magnusson had been shot, watching Sherlock surrender, his vision flashing back and forth between the young man standing in the floodlights, and a boy with wide terrified eyes. A child and a man both, and always on his mind.

In his heart too, though he had only once been able to admit it.

Finally, something seemed to respond to his whirling thoughts. Subconscious thought, or sentiment, or memory, he wasn’t sure and didn’t really care. All that mattered was that his free hand moved, reaching around as far as possible to touch his brother’s back. And whispered words, that seemed somewhat nonsensical, and yet exactly right.

“I know.”

Sherlock shifted a little, but didn’t disengage. “I should have come sooner. Realized sooner.”

“You had other things on your mind. And you did send Detective Lestrade, which was more thought than I had hoped I would be given.”

“Not enough. You would have come yourself, had our positions been reversed.”

“Well, you did have John Watson to deal with. I understand he nearly drowned. And he did need to be returned to his daughter. To say nothing of the fact that, as you put it, he is family.”

“So are you. And I should never have acted otherwise, nor permitted my friends to do so. It was an unacceptable lapse into childish temper on my part.”

“Yes, well...understandable.”

*****ASF*****

Sherlock finally withdrew, though no further than he had to, blue eyes raking over Mycroft with the intensity of Sherrinford’s security scanners. “Not acceptable.”

“Given the situation, latitude may be applied. How long had you been having flashes of memory?”

“A few months. Since Mary’s death, but they were never concrete enough for me to understand. Only snippets. Snapshots. Recurring dreams. Like scenes in a movie, separated from one another. Pieces of a puzzle that didn’t fit.”

“Indeed. I imagine it was all rather disorienting. And then, to have Eurus insert herself into your life so sharply must have come as quite the shock. And naturally, the resurfacing of your memories would also have brought forth some of your state of mind at the time.”

“A child. You’re saying I reverted, in some form, to a child.” Sherlock grimaced.

“Not entirely.” Mycroft paused, then spoke carefully. “I say this not to offend you, brother mine, but to explain, and I ask you to hear me out.”

Sherlock nodded. Mycroft took that as an invitation to continue. “After the death of the boy, after the house burned and Eurus was taken away, you were nearly catatonic for a long while. During those times, you rewrote your entire memory. No best friend. No sister. Only a dog who died, and a Greek myth. In doing so you, I believe unintentionally, destroyed all the connections, all the growth of personality and thought that you had developed. The ability to connect to and speak with ordinary people. Other things. And, in a sense, you locked a part of yourself forever into that childhood existence. Unresolved, the issues, the mindset that led you to lock those memories away, continued to haunt you.”

“You’re saying a part of my mind never grew up.”

“Yes. I’ve always seen it, in times of great stress. I imagine others have commented on it as well.”

“Frequently.”

“Indeed. As long as you could not access those memories, you could not deal with those remnants. But, of course, once the wall was breached, so to speak, it follows that such mannerisms would exhibit themselves more strongly until your mind settled. At least, this is the theory I developed. It was what I was watching for, throughout your earlier years, and your association with John Watson. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that the death of a friend, Mary Watson, was the trigger. Or by what transpired afterward.”

“If you mean the drug usage...”

“I mean everything. The drugs, your actions in attempting to save Dr. Watson...everything. It was, to me, both regression and progression, as the past fought it’s way to the present. Though I admit it took me some time to collect the pieces and put them together, and I had not anticipated Eurus escaping and forcing the issue.” Mycroft shrugged.

“No. I imagine not.” Sherlock offered him a tiny smile. Then it faded, replaced by earnestness once more. He leaned forward, steepling his hands in front of him. “When I came, I meant to verify your health, mentally and physically. But I also wished…I wanted to inquire...”

He paused, then spoke in a rush. “John and I have reconciled, and there are indicators that he shall return to Baker Street with me, permanently, as soon as it is viable and safe for Rosamund. Naturally, I shall be attending to my duties as godfather as well as my responsibilities as a best friend, or perhaps brother to John. Molly and I are working things out. Mrs. Hudson will return to Baker Street, and to managing our lives and baby-sitting Rosamund, as soon as Baker Street is repaired. Lestrade and I will continue to work together. As for the family...Mummy and Father and I shall have some work to do, as we seem to be communicating more frequently. Eurus...I will continue my efforts to communicate with her, to keep her grounded and away from her nightmares of being alone in the sky. I believe she gave me a clue in how this may be accomplished when she asked me to play the violin for her. She said to play myself, and I gather it was a request for a form of communication she understands and can respond with. Which leaves only one relationship whose progress and future course I have not yet deduced or determined.”

“You mean ours.”

“Yes. As you indicated, our relationship has always been somewhat strained, even acrimonious. I am given to understand from Lestrade and John, however, that this is somewhat the norm between siblings, worse between gifted children in the same household.”

“Ah. Normality. A fate to be avoided.”

“Not entirely. However, a relationship so strained that you would accept my actions before and during the Sherrinford incident as normal behavior...I find this unacceptable. I would prefer to re-evaluate and reach a more harmonious standing, though I do logically understand that we will disagree and be at odds. We are too different to be otherwise. Still...”

Mycroft’s expression softened. “I have said it before, brother mine. I will always be there for you. Always.”

“Unacceptable. The implications...I do not wish for you to be there _for_ me. Not now. I wish for you to be there _with_ me.” The words escaped without conscious consideration, but like his words before, they were right. Right for Mycroft, and for himself.

What good was being observant, if one could not know themselves?

Mycroft made a face. “Really Sherlock? Drugs and...legwork?”

“No. Of course not. But games, like the ones we shared after my return. Music, in which I know you have your own proficiency and appreciation. Talking. Tea in Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson makes excellent tea when she can be persuaded. Deductions. Social events, even boring ones, or small ones like Christmas. Family gatherings, when we can both endure them.” Sherlock smirked. “Perhaps even people and sentiment, in small doses.”

Mycroft winced. “Sherlock, you are aware I don’t do people.”

“Of course not. That’s why you and Lady Smallwood have recently been exploring a non-professional relationship, despite the fact that you had her interviewed under suspicion in the AGRA case.” Sherlock’s smirk widened. “I may not have access to every CCTV in London, but I have my resources.”

Mycroft grimaced. “I shall be doubly wary of beggars and corner musicians in the future.”

“Well, they’re good sorts, in their own way. Certainly have their uses. Wiggins, for example, is quite handy to have about.”

“Ah yes. The one who mixes drugs and calls you...what was it? Shezza?”

“Better than Sherly. Or Mikey.” Sherlock snorted.

“Touche.” Mycroft tipped his head.

Sherlock’s mirth vanished as suddenly as it had come. “This is what I would have with you, Mycroft. I...you are family, no matter how much I have dismissed that fact, or abused it, in the past. And I have come to realize...if there is something I truly desire, something beyond stimulation and the thrill of my Work...Mary’s death and my estrangement from John made me realize, I do not wish to lose any more family. Not before I must. I think I have proven already, multiple times, that without them, without you, I shall fall, and far further than even Moriarty could make me go.”

Sherlock met Mycroft’s eyes. “I should not wish to cause you to fall, brother mine, nor see Eurus do so.”

“No danger of that, I should think.” Mycroft’s voice was bland.

“No?” On the surface of it, Sherlock’s voice was as mild as Mycroft’s own. But in his eyes was the memory of Eurus’s test, of a chamber where his brother invited a bullet to the heart and smiled in the face of death.

There was silence between them for a moment, and then Mycroft dipped his head in acknowledgment. His expression shifted. “Tea, you say?”

“Yes. I can even procure some excellent biscuits. I know a place near Baker Street. Although I’m afraid at the moment that a cafe will have to suffice. Unless you would rather make it dinner. I know an excellent Italian restaurant.”

“Ah. That would be the one you go to so frequently? Angelos, or something like that?”

“Yes. Looks small, but I promise that the food is quite good.”

“I suppose I can afford to trust your judgment on the matter.” Mycroft tipped his head, thinking. “I have a prior engagement for the next two evenings, but I could manage dinner...Friday evening, I believe?”

“Excellent. I shall look forward to it.”

Mycroft’s slate-colored eyes searched his face, gauging his sincerity. He stared back. Finally, Mycroft’s whole expression relaxed, warmth lighting his eyes and smoothing out the lines of tension in his forehead. His shoulders loosened, his posture settling into something far more comfortable.

“As shall I, little brother.”

Sherlock smiled at the term, no longer stung by the words. He could see them for the affectionate term they were meant to be now. It helped that he’d finally sat down with John and Lestrade and had a discussion about exactly how normal siblings did interact, so that he could apply the patterns to Mycroft and understand their relationship better. Or at least understand the relationship Mycroft was attempting to maintain with him.

According to both men, for geniuses with sociopathic and reclusive tendencies, they were oddly normal as siblings, if a little odd from an outsiders perspective.

Silence fell between them, but far less uncomfortable than it usually was. For once, he was content to sit in his brother’s parlor, in the comfortable chair he’d arranged to his liking, basking in the alternate warmth of the small fire in the grate, and Mycroft’s proximity.

He’d been afraid, when he’d begun talking, that he was on the verge of losing Mycroft, in one form or another. He no longer felt that urgency. Of course, he suspected there would be more to this whole ‘building a proper relationship’ thing, and he had no delusions that it would be easy between them, but he felt that a connection had been made, and with care it could be built into something strong.

Rather like his new relationship with Eurus.

Strange, how recent events had given him a turn for introspection. And yet, not uncomfortable, nor unpalatable.

He watched his brother, watching the fire and sipping the drink he’d retrieved.

Sherlock. Mycroft. Eurus. They had all been alone in their separate skies, seeking some form of connection to the world. And they had all fallen, each in their own ways. Eurus into madness, himself into drugs. Mycroft into the Iceman, until the events at Sherrinford.

They had survived. They had managed to connect, to anchor each other. To find others (in his case and Mycroft’s) who might hold them to the world and enable them to extend a connection to their lost younger sister. Sherlock closed his eyes, following the threads of those connections in his mind palace, the bonds of family and friends. If they could hold those connections, make them stronger…

They had all fallen. But together, they would rise again.

**Author's Note:**

> I felt like the siblings needed this.


End file.
